


kiss me, hardy!

by Stalemate



Category: Code Name Verity Series - Elizabeth Wein, Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - World War II, F/F, Gen, I think its a slow burn anyways lol, Slow Burn, World War II, kara's a pilot guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-05-02 12:59:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19199329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stalemate/pseuds/Stalemate
Summary: A British spy plane crashes in Nazi-occupied France. It's pilot and passenger are best friends, but just one of the girls has a chance at survival. After landing from a parachute jump, Verity is forced to write everything she knows or be executed. She chooses to confess, only it won't be what anyone expected.ORIt's the Code Name Verity AU no one asked for, but everyone needs.(You don't need to have read the book to understand the story.)





	1. verity

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to first restate that you don't need to have read the books to understand this story (though I highly recommend it); I think I explained everything pretty well. I also borrowed a lot of the writing from the book itself, and I'm keeping pretty much the same format of the book as well.
> 
> TW for mentions of torture. It's not graphic or anything but it's there.

**_Verity_ **

 

I AM A COWARD. I’ve already been here for a week and after I made that deal with SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer von Linden. And it is because I am a coward, and  only  because of that that I will tell you everything. Every last detail of everything I’ve learned and done, all so you stupid Nazi bastards can get what you want.

 

Here’s the deal I made: von Linden asked me how I could be bribed, and I, being the bloody coward I am, asked for my damn clothes back. My CLOTHES, damn it! It seems so petty, looking back now. I bet he was expecting me to ask for something heroic, like victory or something. But no. I asked for my clothes.

 

But now at least I can write this bloody confession with a small scrap of dignity. They didn’t give me back my scarf, to prevent me from strangling myself with it (I did try), and I guess that’s fair (we are at war, after all). It all cost me four sets of wireless code, out of eleven. I traded the last set for a set of ink and paper- and time.

 

Von Linden said I have two weeks to write down everything I know about the British War Effort. Apparently I can have as much paper as I need. To start off my confession, he gave me some stationary from the Bordeaux Castle Hotel, where I am currently being held. It’s no longer a hotel, but a prison for people they’ve captured that might have valuable information. 

 

Anyways, I’m not even sure why I’m doing this. No matter what happens, I’m getting shot. You stupid Fascists are either going to shoot me once I’ve completed my confession, or I’m going to be shot for “collaborating” if I ever do somehow get back home. Out of the two options I’ve got, this one seems easier. It’s faster, and it’s easier. 

 

I’m going to write this in English, as I don’t have the vocabulary for a warfare account in French, and I’m not fluent enough in German. I guess someone will have to translate for von Linden, probably Fraulein Engel. She’s standing behind me now, watching everything I’m writing, and numbering pages as I pass them to her.

 

I guess it’d be a good idea to start off with a list of British Airfields. Not that I know many, anyways. I work in the Special Operations Executive because I can speak French and German, not because I have a good sense of direction. It’s how I ended up here. The people I work for encouraged my ignorance of the location of British Airfields, to avoid me telling you anything if I’d been captured.

 

Wanna know how I got captured? I looked the wrong way before crossing the street. How stupid is that? The Gestapo noticed, and I was promptly arrested as a spy. Bad. Sense. Of. Direction. So instead of telling you false locations of British Airfields, I’ll tell you about aircraft types in operational use.

 

Funny thing is, I don’t actually know many aircraft types. It’s not my forte. Maybe if I was a pilot for the Air Transport Auxiliary, like Kara (the pilot who dropped me here. You sick bastards already showed me pictures of her charred corpse). Or maybe if I was a mechanic on such aircraft, but no.

 

Wait hold on, I do know some aircraft types. The first being the Puss Moth. I know it because it’s the first aircraft my friend Kara ever flew. The story of how I came here actually starts with Kara. I still have absolutely no idea how or why I ended up with her National Registration Card or her pilot’s license, but I did. You guys didn’t believe me when I said that wasn’t me on the license, but I think if I tell you about Kara you’ll understand why we flew here together.

 

Kara is properly Kara Danvers. It’s an American last name, but her family had immigrated to Britain some generations ago. Now, unlike me, Kara had an excellent sense of direction. That’s probably because her grandfather gave her a motorbike for her sixteenth birthday. She once took me to a beautiful spot up on Dark Peak; it was one of the most wonderful afternoons of my life.

 

Anyways, I can tell you a bit about the aforementioned Puss Moth. They are fast, light planes with one set of wings, while the Tiger Moth is a biplane (two sets of wings). It can seat two passengers, along with the pilot. I believe the ‘upgraded’ version of the Puss Moth is called a Leopard Moth (another type I have just remembered).

 

Another type of aircraft I remember is a Lysander. In fact, it’s the type of plane Kara was flying when she dropped me here. We were supposed to land, but when we got fired on that plan went to hell. She said she would try to land after I had bailed out, so I did. I never did see her come down, but I know she did. You sick bastards already showed me the photographs from the crash site. You could’ve at least taken her body out, damn it.

 

Circling back to the topic of airfield locations, I really cannot believe you idiot Fascists don’t already know that Catton Park Aerodrome is in Ilsmere Port. It’s been the busiest airfield for maybe 10 years. They build planes there, apparently. Before the war, it had been a posh civil flying club, and it’s also been a Royal Air Force base for years. What they use it for now, I have no idea. Your guess is as good (if not better) than mine.

 

I also remember one of Kara’s friends (I think they were friends, anyways. I know she’s how Kara became a pilot), Samantha, mentioning a new airfield at Oakway. She said “it’s right by Ladderal Mill.” I’ve no idea where that is, but there you go.

 

I’m getting a bit tired now, as I’ve not eaten or drunk since yesterday and have been writing for the past nine hours, so I’m going to risk tossing this pencil across the room and have a good chuckle.

 

//

 

Ths pen dos nt wrk. Is ths tes or punshmen I wnt my pencl bak

 

The English Flight Officer is telling the truth. The ink in the pen given to her was too thick and had clumped around the pen nib. It has now been thinned with kerosene and I am testing it here to make sure it is acceptable for writing.

 

Heil Hitler!

SS-Scharfuhrer Etienne Thibaut

 

You ignorant Nazi bastard, I AM IRISH!

 

Anyways, I know all the other prisoners here absolutely despise me. After I finished writing today, as punishment for throwing my pencil across the room, they made me watch them torture a French prisoner (I’ve been calling him Jacques in my head, dunno why), to “make me see how fortunate I am.” He even spat at me as they dragged him back to his cell, “Little British piece of shit,” though it sounds better in French  _ p’tit morceau de merde écossaise. _

 

There is actually another Jacques held here, a woman. She’s always humming, singing, or whistling for war hymn whenever we walk past each other (my cell is right next to the one they use for interrogations).

 

Don’t you guys think it makes them stronger to give them something to despise? They look at me and say, “ _ Mon Dieu.  _ Please don’t ever let me be like her.”

 

Anyways, I’d like to tell you more about Kara. She plays in important role in all of this. (What “this” is, I’m not quite sure yet. We’ll find out soon enough). She started out her journey to becoming a pilot at Oakway. She’d go there every Saturday and tinker with the aircraft there. It wasn’t until October of 1938 that she really started piloting. It was in October that we (Britain) started the Civil Air Guard.

 

It was very popular. So popular, in fact, that thousands of people applied (free flight training!). Only a tenth of those thousands of people got accepted, and only one in twenty of them were women. Kara got lucky though, because she applied and got accepted,

 

The timing, however, was less than ideal. Kara started flying in late October of 1938. Hitler invaded Poland on September 1, 1939, and Britain declared war on Germany not long after that. Kara got her basic pilot’s license six months before all civil aircraft were grounded, in August.

 

A few days before that happened, Samantha managed to get Kara in to the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force (WAAF for short). Thing is, you do everything  but  fly in the WAAF. You wouldn’t expect Kara to join the WAAF, all she wanted to do was fly. The Air Ministry was in a panic in August 1939, scrambling to find women to work as radio operators when they realized they’d need all the men to do the flying, so Kara joined the WAAF and became a radio operator.

I remember she always compared being in the WAAF to being in school. Everything from the drills they made them do, to the uniform they had to wear (though Kara’s group wasn’t assigned an official government uniform until later on), which was an airforce blue cardigan.

 

Fast forward a bit, and Kara got promoted (not sure if I should call it that) from Aircraftswoman to radio operator. One day, after helping a group of stupid boys flying a plane without a map, who couldn’t find Manchester of all places, Kara got what she’d been wanting. The chief radio officer had noticed what she’d done, and when he’d found out she had a pilot’s license, invited her on a flight in a Wellington (another type of plane I’ve remembered).

 

These flights (though they were more like joyrides) continued on for quite some time, with Kara performing small tasks and helping the pilots navigate. Her WAAF section officer took notice, and offered Kara further training.

 

“In what?” Kara had said.

 

“It’s a bit secret. Very secret, actually. Just say yes, and I’ll send you on the course.”

 

So Kara said yes. What she said yes to, exactly, she didn’t know yet, but it was everything she’d wanted.

 

Well that is all I can usefully write for today. I’ve hopefully a dish of keilkenny a la guerre, which consists of cabbage and potato mash without the potato and with not very much cabbage. At this rate, I’m just glad I don’t have scurvy yet.

 

//

 

I am afraid to write this. I don’t want to go down in history as the one who helped the Nazis win, but here I am.

 

RDF is Range and Direction Finding. It shares the acronym with Radio Direction Finding, to confuse the enemy, but they’re not the same thing. They call it  _ radar _ now, and American word. An acronym for  _ RA _ dio Detection And Ranging (which I don’t think is easier to remember, but to each their own). In the summer of 1940 it was still so new nobody knew what it was. It was so secret that-

Bloody hell, I can’t do this.

 

After spending a half hour fussing about a bent pen nib with Fraulein Engel. I bent it quite a few times, but stopped when she mentioned the SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer von Linden and the deal I had made. If I do not cooperate, they will resume my interrogation.

 

I’ll do anything. As long as it means they don’t resume my damn interrogation, I’ll do anything. SO. Range and Direction Finding. Radar. Whatever you want to call it. Kara spent six weeks in radar training, and got promoted to officer. Then she was stationed at RAF Maindsend, not too far from Canterbury, though she was still a radio operator.

 

One afternoon, Kara almost fell off her chair when she heard the desperate call for help.

 

“Mayday, mayday”

 

It was recognizable in English, though perhaps it was French ( _ maidez,  _ help me). The rest of the transmission was in German. She quickly turned on her microphone, and switched the call to the speaker so everyone in the radio room could hear.

 

The plane was heading straight for Maidsend, and the other girls were worried it could’ve been a bomber, while some were worried it was a hoax. Someone pointed out that he’d be calling in English if it was a hoax, and then the officer in charge of the radio room asked if anyone in the room spoke German.

 

Silence.

 

He commanded one of the radio operators to run to the wireless station and find him someone who spoke German. Soon after, the door to the radio room banged open, the operator from before was back, with one of the WAAF wireless operators close behind him. Kara looked up from the notepad in front of her.

 

The girl was immaculate- not a blue thread out of place, her long black hair in a chignon two inches above her uniform collar. Kara recognized her. Everyone called her Queenie (though she wasn’t the WAAF Queen Bee), not was it her name. Kara didn’t actually know the girl’s real name, though she had a certain reputation for being fast and fearless. She sauced officers and got away with it, but at the same time, wouldn’t leave a building during an air raid until she knew everyone was out.

 

Realizing she had been staring, Kara finally handed her headset to the girl. After a few seconds of listening, she translated that the pilot was over the English Channel and was looking for Calais. Everyone in the room quickly realized, however, that he was over the Thames River and was heading straight for Kent, under the impression that he was heading for France.

 

After finding out what type of aircraft the guy was flying, Queenie made her first radio call, in German, as cool and crisp as if she’d been giving instructions to Luftwaffe bombers her entire life.

 

Eventually, they tricked the pilot into landing in one of their airfields, and all was good.

 

_ Until that night. Maidsend got raided again. Kara and her bunk mates were so dead asleep that they didn't wake up until the first explosion, and promptly ran through the woods to the nearest air raid shelter in their pajamas. All Kara had taken with her was a gas mask, ID card, ration coupons, and an umbrella. Hellfire raining down on her from up above her Kara brought a damn umbrella with her. _

 

_ Once inside, the girls (all the men were quartered half a mile away and used a different shelter) passed around cigarettes and played some poker to pass the time. _

 

_ It was quite cozy, for what it was. Someone next to Kara asked if she could share her umbrella. When she looked up, she realized it was the wireless operator from earlier- Queenie. She was a vision of femenine perfection and heroism, even in her WAAF regulation men’s pajamas. She offered Kara a cigarette. _

 

_ “Wish I’d brought a brolly,” she drawled in the posh accent of someone who studied at Oxford, “Have you room for two?” _

 

_ Kara took the cigarette, but did not immediately move over. Queenie seemed like the type of person who would mock someone who burst into tears every time she heard a gun fired. On a military airfield. In a war. _

 

_ But Queenie didn’t seem to be making fun of Kara, it was quite the opposite. So Kara scooted over a little and made room for another body under the umbrella. She gently pried the handle out of Kara’s trembling hand and held the ridiculous umbrella over both their heads, inside the bunker. _

 

_ The next day, Kara found Queenie asleep in the canteen. She sat across from her with two cups of tea and an iced bun. She was quite relieved to see the wireless operator with her guard down. She pushed one of the cups close to Queenie’s face so the warmth woke her up. _

 

_ “Are you scared of  _ anything?”  _ Kara asked. _

_ “Lots of things! I can name ten.” _

_ “Go on, then.” _

_ Queenie looked at her hands, “Breaking my nails,” she said jokingly. _

_ “I’m serious,” added Kara. _

_ “Alright, then. The dark.” _

_ Kara didn’t believe her, but it was true, “I’m scared of the cold.” _

_ Queenie took a sip of her tea before speaking again, “Falling asleep while I’m working. God knows what would happen.” Kara agreed, and added her fear of bombs dropping. _

_ “Well that’s a pretty obvious one.” _

_ “Fair enough. How bout bombs dropping on my sister and mum?” _

_ “I guess that’s fair. I can’t relate, though.” _

 

_ They switched topics, with Kara asking her what it was like to question the German bomber pilot they had found.  Queenie only answered, “Careless talk costs lives.” _

_ With that, the brunette stood up, thanked Kara for the bun, and walked off. _

It took them a bit longer than I realized, but von Linden finally pointed out to Engel that Queenie and I are one and the same. He also pointed out that I have not used my own name, which confused Engel.

 

I guess the real answer to that question is that I am not Queenie anymore. I am someone else now.

 

//

 

I am supposed to have a meeting with an American woman. She is to interview me on what life is like as a prisoner of war.

 

//

 

They’ve got me in different, nicer clothes for the interview today. They gave me a scarf to cover up my bruises from the beatings I’ve gotten. We’re having the interview in von Linden’s office. She introduces herself as Georgia Penn. I don’t tell her my name. She says she is looking for verity- truth. We start the interview in French, not wanting von Linden to understand, but soon enough switch to English.

 

“Truth is the daughter of time, not authority. Verity! I am the soul of verity. I am the soul of verity, “ I repeat it in French as well.

 

“Well thank goodness for that, I can trust you to give me honest answers.” She glanced up at von Linden, “You know what they call this place?”

 

I shrugged, not knowing.

 

“They call it  _ Le Château de Bourreaux,”  _ she said. I laughed a bit too loudly at that. I was never a fan of puns, but I needed a good laugh. ( _ Chateau de Bordeaux, Chateaus des Bourreaux-  _ Bordeaux Castle, Castle of Butchers.)

 

//

 

I am condensing now. I can’t write fast enough, and I’m running out of time.

 

Kara was given parachute training too. She was trained on how to fly the plane while people were jumping though, not in the actual jumping out of the plane itself. They use Whitley bombers for the parachute training, a type Kara had actually never flown before. Nothing about it seemed strange until she was asked to come along as Pilot 2 when I was making my first jump over Cheshire. She certainly hadn’t expected  _ me  _ and was too sharp to take it as a coincidence. She recognized me instantly as we climbed on board, but we were not allowed to speak to each other.

 

Some time later, Kara was offered a job as an air taxi, and accepted. It was a boring job. She had one flight every six weeks or so. She was back to flying Tiger Moths and Puss Moths, and a Lysander, once.

 

The most interesting flight, however, was in September a year ago. It was a gorgeous, glorious, clear and windles night (some of the best flying weather Kara had ever seen). She was to taxi another passenger from Oakway. As always, she wasn’t supposed to initiate conversation, and didn’t get to see her passenger. She did spot, however, that the passenger was wearing a WAAF cap.

 

Once airborne, Kara didn’t even point out how pretty the landscape below them was. The passenger gasped when Kara unclipped the Verey pistol from the side of her seat, “Don’t worry,” she shouted. “It’s only a flare gun, it lets them know we’re here, and to put the lights on for us!”

 

It was not until the aircraft had come to a full stop and the engine shut down did the passenger startle Kara by giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you. You are wonderful!”

 

“You should have told me it was you!” replied Kara, while her friend prepared to disappear into the night.

 

“I didn’t want to surprise you in the air. I’m not used to flying, especially not at night.” She leaned back into the cockpit for a moment, “I’ll see you when I’m done.”

 

Queenie walked across the concrete, going God knows where, and Kara headed for the Cottage, where she was staying for the night, along with a few other people. She ended up talking to some of the guys there before heading to the room she was supposed to share with Queenie. Not wanting to wake the other girl up, she lit a candle to light her way. Queenie’s bed was untouched, though. Whatever she was here to do, she was still doing it. 

 

It was around four in the morning when Kara put on her pajamas and got into bed, and half past five when Queenie finally stepped into the room. Not bothering to check if Kara was awake or not (she wasn’t), she turned on the bright light overhead, and got her pajamas and a hairbrush out of her suitcase. Then she sat infront of the mirror and stared at herself. Kara stared too.

 

Kara watched as Queenie slowly took off her blue WAAF tunic. It took her a second to realize she was being slow, as if it hurt to move her shoulders.

She took off her blouse.

 

One arm was covered in bruises, same as her throat and shoulders. By the looks of it, someone had tried to choke her to death hours ago. Queenie gingerly examined the bruises, and after a minute or so, she sighed and slipped into her pajamas. She turned around and saw Kara looking at her.

 

“Hey, sorry if I woke you.” She said with a crooked smile

“You didn’t.”

“You saw?” She spoke of the bruises. Kara nodded.

 

She paused for a few seconds. “You know what you looked like just now? With your hair pulled back in that strict governess way-”

 

“- _ Eine Agentin der Nazis”  _ Queenie interrupted.

 

“Huh? Oh, yeah. A German spy.”

 

Silence again. Kara didn’t ask what had happened. “What do you actually  _ do? _ ”

 

“Careless talk costs lives, Kara.”

 

“I don’t talk.  _ What do you do? _ ”

 

“ _ Ich bin eine _ -”

 

“Yeah, I know. You’re a translator. But what for?”

 

“I never said I was a translator. I’m an interrogator.”

 

It absolutely baffles me, von Linden, that you have not yet found out what I do. On the job, I am called Tess Mercer. Like you, I am a wireless operator. Our methods differ.

 

“Come get warm,” Kara said.

 

So Queenie turned off the light overhead and climbed into bed with Kara. Kara carefully wrapped her arms around Queenie; her friend was shaking now.

 

“Kiss me, Hardy,” whispered Queenie.

 

So Kara gingerly kissed Queenie’s shoulder, and held her tightly, not letting go, not even when they both fell asleep.

 

I like writing about Kara. I enjoy remembering. I like pulling together all the memories and constructing them into a story. But I’m so tired. The asshole who’s guarding me keeps pressing the end of his cigarette to my neck whenever I stop writing, so I’ll just write out all the Robert Burns I know.

 

Burns, heh. Burns to stop the burns

_ Behead me or hang me, that will never fear me- _

_ I’LL BURN AUCHINDOON ere my life leave me _

Burning burning burning burning burning burning

Oh God, those pictures.

burning

Kara.

_ Kara _

 

//

 

He knows now. They had burst into my room in the middle of the night, von Linden in the lead. He was  _ alight _ . He threw the door open wide, letting the white light from the hallway outside into the room, and uttered in disbelief, “ _ Tess Mercer? _ ”

 

He had only just found out. “You lie,” he accused.

 

Why the  _ hell  _ would I lie about  _ that _ ? You know, I was quite surprised he had heard of me, or at least seemed to know who Tess Mercer is. I stood up and straightened my shoulders. “What  _ possible reason _ could I have to pretend to be Berlin’s interpretive liaison with London?”

 

“What proof? You have no valid papers,” he said breathlessly. He sounded like he ran here. “You were caught with Kara Danvers’s papers on you, but you aren’t her. So why would you be Tess Mercer?”

 

“Tess Mercer’s papers are all forgeries. They wouldn’t prove anything.”

 

I paused, counted to three, and advanced on him. Just two steps. We now stood a meter apart, so he could not yet take advantage of his height over me. Then another step, to allow him that advantage. I looked up at him, and asked in German, “What is your daughter’s name?”

 

“Isolde,” he answered, and went red as a tomato. I had him and he knew it. I burst out laughing, instantly myself again, no longer Tess Mercer, “I don’t need papers! I don’t need proof! I don’t need all these different kinds of torture you’ve got planned! All I do is ask a question and you answer it! What more proof than that one word do you need?”

 

Oh, the irony of this man’s life. And of mine- Isolde alive in the day and sun, while I suffocate in the Night and Fog ( _ Nacht und Nebel,  _ in German. It’s what they call the place we’re taken to after we’re no longer useful). The unfairness of it all, of everything. Of me being here, and Isolde probably in some school in Switzerland, wonderful neutral Switzerland. And Kara. Oh, sweet Kara,

KARA

I finally collapsed and sobbed at von Linden’s feet. He looked down on me, “Tess Mercer. You might have saved yourself a great deal of suffering if you had simply revealed this sooner. Fool.”

 

//

 

The next flight Kara had was supposed to be a normal air taxi flight, with Queenie as her passenger. They were to depart from Oakway and land in France. It was meant to be a covert mission. Four people checked over the parachutes and papers, maps and routes, and gave her a call sign to use (Wendy). Someone even offered her a revolver, but she declined, “I wouldn’t know what to do with a revolver, anyway.” She had said. It wasn’t entirely true. She had gone hunting once with their friend Winn (he had lost all his toes after crash landing in the Atlantic ocean, they froze off), and shot two pheasants with Queenie’s revolver. But after all, Kara was-is? Was. She was a modest person.

 

Anyways, they finally lifted off. They flew in silence for about half an hour, and when they were over the English Channel, Queenie asked, “What are you worried about?”

 

“It’s cloudy over Caen, and there’s a light in the clouds.”

 

“What do you mean, there’s a light in the clouds?”

 

“I dunno, there’s some pinkish flickering light in the clouds. Could be gunfire, could be a plane going up in flames. I’m gonna try to go around it.”

 

Their new course went over the Normandy Coast, and over a citadel. It was a dull flight, so Queenie ended up falling asleep in the cockpit. She woke when she was slammed into a bunch of crates. She wasn’t hurt, but disoriented as hell. She looked up and saw bright orange light surrounding the windows. Just as she realized the plane was heading straight for the ground, she was knocked out cold. When she woke up a few moments later, she heard Kara’s frantic voice over the intercom, “ _ Are you alright? Oh, hell, there’s another one.”  _ Another  _ what _ , Queenie wasn’t so sure.

 

“Fly the plane, Kara. Just fly the plane.” She muttered, mostly to herself. Soon enough, she figured out they were being gunned down by antiaircraft guns. “ _ Sorry about earlier, I had to dive to put out the fire from the guns. Bit of a warning, you might have to do a parachute jump, I’m not sure I’ll be able to land.” _

 

_ “Well what about you?” _

 

Kara had never jumped out of a plane, and both she and Queenie knew that if it came down to it, Kara would rather go out with her hands on the flight controls, rather than jump into darkness.

 

“You’d better put your parachute on.”

 

After signaling to the airfield that they were there (by flashing a Q in Morse code), Kara began to try and descend, so she could land. The plane was stuck in a climb, the handweel for adjusting the tailpipe was broken, and Kara couldn’t get it to budge. She gave up, deciding to let the plane climb so Queenie could jump. There was no way in hell she was going to land this plane.

 

The guards are here to fetch me again, which means I am officially out of time. God damn it, why couldn’t I have written faster i shouldve written faster DAMN IT I shouldve writ

 

//

 

I’m brought into a room, at the center of which sits von Linden. There is a small metal table in front of him, along with a pen and paper. He looks at me, and points to the paper. “Write.” It is a command, “Finish your tale.”

 

I only nod in response, and pick up the pen.

 

Queenie clutched Kara’s shoulder tightly, she was now squatting next to Kara. “Tell me when to go.”

 

The plane was still climbing- they were supposed to go to 3000 feet. Queenie didn’t let go the entire time. “Okay, you can jump from here. It’s a bit windy, so keep your eye on the lights.”

 

Queenie squeezed Kara’s shoulder. “Kiss me, Hardy,” It was a recurring phrase throughout their friendship. They were both fans of Laurel and Hardy, and normally they’d give each other a quick kiss on the cheek, but not this time. Not after everything they’d been through together, and how much they loved each other (neither would ever admit it). So Kara kissed her. It was a quick peck on the lips, time being of the essence

 

And with that, Queenie retreated through the bulkhead. Kara felt the slightest shift in balance as Queenie jumped out.

 

Then she flew alone.

 

//

 

I’ve been given the past three days to read over what I have written, and it makes a good story. Engel will probably be disappointed it has no proper ending, though (not on paper, anyways). She’s seen the pictures, too though. She knows how it ends. There’s no point in me trying to write it out, make it seem hopeful.

 

Oh well, one thing I have noticed while reading over everything I’ve written, is that I have not once written my name down on anything, so it only seems fitting I do it here:   
  


Angelina Kieran Luthor

 

That is my name, but I think of myself as Lena. I am not lassie (as some have called me over the years). I am not Tess Mercer. I am not Queenie. I’ve answered to all three, but at the end of the day, I am Lena. It’s what my parents called me, what my brother called me (before he decided to join the Nazis), it’s what Kara called me. It’s what I think of myself as.

 

Oh God, they’ll take away this paper if I stop writing now, and that’ll be it for me. For this account. It’ll all be over. They’ll finally ship me off into the Night and Fog, where I’ll die.

 

God, why did I do this?  _ Why?  _ All I have done is buy myself time. I haven’t actually told anyone anything of use, looking back now. I’ve just told a story.

 

But I have told the truth. Isn’t that ironic? I was sent because I’m so good at lying, yet here I am. But I have told the truth.

 

I have told the truth. I am finished now, but I will continue to write it again and again until someone comes and takes this pen away.

 

I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. I have told the truth. i have told the truth. i have told the truth, i have told the truth, i have told the truth i have told the truth i have told the truth i have told the truth i have told the truth i have told th

 

_ SS-Sturmbannfuhrer N. J. Ferber _

_ Ormaie _

_ 30 November 1943 _

 

_ SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer von Linden- _

 

_ This is my final reminder to you that Flight Officer Luthor is a designated NN prisoner. If I see her in your custody again I will be forced to take formal action. _

 

_ I recommend you send her  _ at once _ to Natzweiler-Struthof as a specimen, where she will be executed by lethal injection after six weeks, if she survives the experimentation. _

 

_ Show that devil one ounce of compassion and I’ll have you shot. _

_ Heil Hitler! _


	2. kittyhawk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I half-assed this one. But I got it down, eh? Enjoy the slow burn :>

**_Kittyhawk_ **

 

I have Lena’s identity papers.

I have Lena’s identity papers.

Crap.

I have Lena’s identity papers.

I HAVE LENA’S IDENTITY PAPERS!!! WHAT WILL SHE DO WITHOUT ID??

 

Shoot. I can’t think when it happened. I checked my papers, she checked hers. Crap. She must have mine.

 

This isn’t a great place to write this- I’m ruining my ATA Pilot’s Note Book and I  probably  shouldn’t make a record, in case they find this. I can’t believe I didn’t check sooner. I’ve been here for two days. My license and National Registration card are gone, in their place are Lena’s ration coupons and her forged identity card. The photograph on it doesn’t really look like her. She’s wearing her fair and scary Nazi face- the one I always imagined she used at interrogations.

 

Anyways, my lack of papers doesn’t really matter to me because I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN FRANCE. 

 

If I’m caught writing this I will be in  big  trouble, no matter who it is. German, French, British, even American. I’ll be COURT-MARTIALED. But I’ve nothing else to do, and I have the best pen in the world- an Eterpen. I know I shouldn’t write but I’ve got to do something. That ferry flight would have been an “S” chit, so that means I’ll have to make a report. Ugh. I’ll work on that.

 

**Accident Notes**

 

Crash landing in field Damask, near Ormaie, 11 Oct. 1943.

 

Flight over Channel without incident although deviated from planned course over Caen to avoid antiaircraft fire. New route took us to Angers, where the aircraft was shot at. The tailplane was hit.

 

Stuck in climb and also lacking rudder control. On arrival, found descent very difficult and agreed passenger should bail out over the airfield.

 

Not sure how I actually managed to get the damned plane down. Had switched off ignition and fuel before landing as per Pilot’s Notes and Standing Orders for forced landing. Then three men of the reception committee (one of them English- code name Mike) slid open the canopy and pulled me out of the cockpit.

 

They helped me sit up. “This’ll be our Verity,” said Mike, in English.

 

“I’m not Verity!” I burst out. This earned me a gun held to my head.

 

“Not Verity? Who the hell are you?” asked one of the men.

 

“Code name Kittyhawk. First Officer, Air Transport Auxiliary.” The man seemed to know me, claiming I had flown him to RAF Special Duties. They were expecting Peter.

 

“He had a smashup in his motorcar that afternoon. I shouldn’t be-” he covered my mouth before I could say anything else, telling me not to say anything that could compromise me. 

 

“What happened?”

 

I explained to him that we had been shot at by antiaircraft. They were astonished that I was hit and still managed to deliver them 500 pounds of Explosive 808. Really the only reason I was able to do it was because I knew I had Lena in the back. Wouldn’t have ever thought of diving to put the fire out had I not been trying to save her life.

 

They had to destroy my plane. They’d shot a German sentry.

Shoot, I really shouldn’t be writing this. Whatever. I’ll burn it later.

They’d shot a German sentry. He’d come on his bike at the wrong moment, spying on us, so Mike shot him. They were happy they had a bike, but didn’t know what to do with the body.

 

After destroying my plane, they planted the sentry in it, dressed in my clothes and everything. I didn’t help much, I just sat in the cold under a borrowed sweater and overcoat. They also destroyed all my gear- helmet, parachute, and even my gas mask.

 

I’ve been clothed and fed very generously, considering they’ll all be shot if I’m discovered. I slept for more than 24 hours after getting to the barn where I’m at. The crash site was closed off for two days as German soldiers took photographs and sifted through the wreckage.

 

I’m still very sore from keeping that damn plane at level flight for more than an hour. I feel like I’ve been fighting lions. I could sleep for a week. Starting to nod off now, actually. I should probably make a hiding place for these notes before I do, though. If anyone reads this, I’ll have more worries than just being court-martialed.

 

I wish Lena would turn up. Wonder where she is.

 

//

 

I spent this entire afternoon learning to fire a revolver. That was fun. Mitraillette (one of the girls who lived on the farm) and a few other guys kept guard while Mike taught me how to shoot. It’s quite fun, really, and I’m a decent shot. I think it’d find it to be a nice challenge if it weren’t for the noise- and Mike’s wandering hands. When I had flown him to RAF Special Duties, he had his hand on my thigh the ENTIRE FLIGHT. Ugh. What an ass. According to Mitraillete (that’s the girl who lives here), he does this to every woman under 40 who comes near him.

 

I’m also trying not to fret over Lena. Word is that she met her first contact the day before yesterday. Dunno where, but thank God she landed safely!

 

Damn, I really need to get into the habit of calling her Verity. Everyone else around here does. No one here goes by, or even knows, real names. Don’t wanna give Lena’s away accidentally.

 

Her assignment is so secret her first contract didn't even know she had landed until she told him. Word is spreading that Verity is here. She’s supposed to get access to the city archives and look up the drawings for the old hotel building the Gestapo use as their HQ. She can’t do it without her ID though, which I still have.

 

We don’t want to hand over her ID though, especially not her Laurel Thon papers. That was her fake identity she was supposed to use. The operation is to go ahead as planned. With a little care and planning that entire hotel will go up in flames.

 

I’ve taken Mike’s revolver apart and put it back together 7 times. It’s not as fun as a radial engine, but it’ll do.

 

//

 

Lena has vanished. It’s true she had met her first contact. On October 12th, the day after the crash. But then she completely disappeared, as if she’d never even  been  in france. She’s been missing for over a week now. There’s never a record of the arrests made when people disappear, either.

 

Lena has vanished.

 

It shocks me to write it, here in the margins of my little ATA Pilot’s Notes, but it’s true. She’s just vanished. She might already be dead, for all I know.

 

I’m afraid I’ll be found. I’m afraid Lena is dead. Even more so, I’m afraid Lena’s been caught by the Ormaie Gestapo. The mere likelihood (and near certainty) that she’s a prisoner there is enough to send shivers down my spine. I should stop writing, though I do love this pen. The ink doesn’t even smudge when you cry on it.

 

//

 

Had my photograph taken. They plan to do over Verity’s false id card to turn Kittyhawk- me- into Laurel Thon. I’d become the family’s cousin whose parents have been bombed and has come here to be looked after.

 

There’s a possibility that if Lena’s already been caught, she might’ve already compromised that name. We don’t think she did (or will), though. If they even ask, she can give them another fake name. Probably Tess Mercer.

 

But the real reason why she won’t tell them about Laurel Thon is because she knows that’s the only ID I have with me. If she knows I’m still alive, that is.

 

Anyways, the photographer who took my picture is also in charge of giving the Gestapo enlarged pictures of my crash. He showed them to me. The most disturbing thing about them is that I know they’re supposed to be me.

 

“What are these for?” I asked.

 

They told me they would be showing them to a British bomber they had shot down and ask him questions about it. I asked them if they thought the British bomber might be Verity. Mike just said she’s not an airman. I guess he’s right. She’s not English, either.

 

I was asked if I thought the corpse in the pictures looked like me. At any rate, the melted corpse barely resembled a human being at that point. But those ATA wings… I really don’t want Lena to see these pictures and be told that’s me in them. It’s believable.

 

The photographer pulled more glossy sheets from a folder and held one out to me. It was an image of the cockpit, the remains of eleven wireless sets in it. It’s a BRILLIANT photograph. If they show these to Lena, it’ll be a gift. She’ll make up an operator and destination for every single one of the radios, along with the frequencies and codes. She will lead them blind.

 

//

 

Apparently there’s a woman in Paris that can find Verity for us. Her name’s Georgia Penn. She’s going to interview her under the guise of entertainment. It’s quite brilliant, really. Hope they let her in, though.

 

//

 

I am Laurel Thon now. I really thought it’d feel a lot more different. But at this point, I’m just glad I can be useful now. Now with my official-looking papers, I can  finally  go out into the world. Maybe even bike into town on the dead German sentry’s bike. I know we have it somewhere here.

 

//

 

I have been in France for about five weeks now. I’ve been doing a good bit of cycling. Did a good 60 miles twice this week, went to see an airfield we could use for Mike to get a RAF plane here, I think. I’m not really sure what we do.

 

I should mention who the people I’m staying with are. It’s a circuit called the Resistance. I think they’ve been smuggling people out of France, which is why they keep needing to find places to use as airfields. (They’ve been trying to get me out of France for 2 weeks now.

 

In other news, the interviewer- Georgia Penn- got rejected by the head of the Gestapo. She plans to ignore the refusal and try again, this time asking the captain. Hope it goes well for her.

 

//

 

I’m still here. Another failed attempt at getting me out of France. The car we were using to get to the airfield kept breaking down. It happened FOUR TIMES! I just about had a tantrum. Pulled my gun on the driver, I was so mad.

 

The choke of the car wasn’t working, and the driver refused to let me fix it. The fourth time it happened, it took us a solid HOUR to get the car back up and running again. When the car stopped for the FIFTH TIME I got out of the car.

 

“I will WALK to this God damned airfield if I have to. I know the coordinates, and I have a compass. I’LL FUCKING WALK and if I miss the bloody plane I will WALK to Ormaie. If you want me to get back in that DAMN CAR you are going to let me fix the fucking choke RIGHT NOW”

 

Mike tried to stop me, claiming we were already an hour and a half late. I hate him.

 

“OPEN THE COWLING OR WILL SHOOT IT OPEN, I SWEAR TO GOD!”

 

It was an empty threat, but I think the only reason they believed it was because I leveled my revolver at the poor driver’s head. He got out of the car, and opened the cowling. Turns out the screw that held the cable to the choke had disconnected. All I had to do was tighten the screw and we were back on our way.

 

When we  finally  got to the airfield, the damned plane had left. I’m still pissed about it.

 

//

 

Penn’s found her!! SHE FOUND LENA!! She talked to her yesterday. Lena’s still alive, but she  _ is  _ a prisoner. Caught her almost immediately after she landed, they did. She looked the wrong way before crossing the street. I can’t say I’m surprised. She’s always had a terrible sense of direction. Typical Lena.

 

Georgia Penn asked if she could interview an English speaker, and they got to talk face-to-face (under guard, of course). She verified Lena by her code name- Verity. All information was passed in hints and code words.

 

She didn’t give Penn her name, didn’t even mention her military service or rank. Told Penn she was a WIRELESS OPERATOR. That’s not even why she’s here, and it seems they’ve gone through a lot of effort to get code out of her. Whatever she’s given them is either obsolete or made up.

 

As long as their focused on her completely nonexistent wireless activities, they won’t find out about Operation Blow-Up-the-Ormaie-Gestapo-HQ, or whatever the hell it’s actually called.

 

Lena gave her some clues as well. She said

She

Lena was

Fuck it. Fly the plane, Kara. Just fly the damn plane.

 

I’M NOT GOING TO CRY.

I got to talk to Penn myself. We had met up (with Mitraillete there as well) by a little pond. We sat on a bench winding yarn while she told us what had happened in the interview. Just as I had reached for more yarn, Penn had grabbed my hand, and held it tightly.

 

“You feeling brave, Kittihawk?”

 

I shrugged. “I guess so.”

 

“There’s no nice way to tell you this. She’s been tortured.”

 

Neither I nor Mitraillete answered for quite a while. We couldn’t do much of anything. Not after hearing that. I asked if she was sure. She said Lena showed her.

 

“There’s an ugly row of burns all around her throat and collarbone, they look rather recent. It’s the same around her wrists. Wicked bruises on her legs, too. Those look like they’re fading now. Seems they’ve gone easy on her. She might’ve made a deal with them.”

 

She paused for a bit. We all did. “Do you know what her assignment was?” Penn finally asked me.

 

I shook my head, but I did know.

 

“Well, here’s what she told me. Maybe you can make sense of it. I sure can’t.”   
  


I can’t, though. I’ve no clue what to do with any of it. I’ll write down what Lena’s given us, though.

 

  1. The building she’s being held in has its own generator
  2. The fuse box is under the grand staircase.
  3. They don’t have wireless broadcasting at the hotel. Something about the walls being too thick.
  4. Penn found out about the ‘secretary’ they have. Engel. Lena thinks she’s about to have a crisis of conscience. She suggests we watch her; we might be able to use her to our advantage. Lena calls her ‘the angel’, a direct translation of her surname in German.



 

You know, sometimes Lena would make me jealous. Her cleverness, how posh she is. The Swiss school she went to before the war, speaking three languages. Now I hate myself for thinking any of it was worth envying.

 

All I can think about now is where she is and how much I love her. Just the thought is enough to bring me to tears again.

 

//

 

I keep forgetting that I am still Kara. I haven’t heard my own name in what, seven weeks? And my alter ego, Laurel Thon, is going to have a lot of work to do over the next couple of days. I am supposed to deliver a message to the German secretary- Engel. It’s all up to me to pull her in to our plan. I don’t reckon I’ll be getting much sleep tonight. Or tomorrow.

 

//

 

The message was delivered today. I had been sitting in a cafe for an hour waiting for someone to tell me, “ _ L’ange descend en dix minutes,”  _ Ten minutes until the angel comes down. That meant Engel had gone down to get the car for the Gestapo captain. All I had to do was walk past the front of the hotel while she was ushering the captain into the car, and hand her a lipstick tube with a slip of paper hidden inside it. It contained the location of her own  _ cachette-  _ the place where she would receive messages.

 

If she wants to agree and join the Resistance, she’s supposed to leave a note at the cafe, folded in a handkerchief and placed under a table leg.

 

When the time was right, I walked up to her, ‘picked up’ a tube of lipstick, and said in terrible German, “ _ Verzeihung, aber Sie haben Ihren Lippenstift fallengelassen,”  _ meaning ‘excuse me, you have dropped your lipstick.” If she didn’t take the lipstick, I was supposed to say, “ _ Es tut mir leid, daß es doch nicht Ihr Lippenstift war,”  _ meaning, “I’m sorry, it wasn’t your lipstick after all.”

 

She looked down at the tube of lipstick, then at me. She asked me, in English, “Are you Kara Danvers?”

 

I shook my head, “Laurel Thon,” I lied.

 

She nodded, just once. Took the lipstick, and climbed into the car. “ _ Danke,  _ Laurel.”

 

As she drove away I realized Laurel Thon wasn’t supposed to understand English.

 

I fucked up.

 

//

 

Well, we’ve got Engel’s answer. She left us Lena’s silk scarf. As soon as I had my hands on it, I biked straight home, faster than normal. I got to my room, and laid it out flat on the bed. There was ink smeared all over one corner.

 

The scarf had a chemical smell to it, sweet and tarry. That’s not like Lena at all. Then I remembered Engel was a chemist. I sped downstairs, asked one of the kids where I could find an iron. As soon as the irons were hot, I grabbed the ironing board, put the scarf on it, and ironed it. I was afraid I’d ruin it-burn it. But I didn’t. After a minute or two Engel’s message began to appear in the silk.

 

I don’t know what Engel used, but she wrote in French, so I can’t really remember much of it. She’s either tipped us off or betrayed us. We won’t know until later tonight.

 

19 prisoners from Poiters are being transferred from a concentration camp in northeastern France. The bus will be swinging by Oramaie and pick up five more prisoners. Lena will be with them.

 

//

 

I’m going to write out tonight’s events as an incident report. It’s easier that way. It hurts less.

 

Attempted sabotage of Poitou River Bridge with intention of stopping German bus transferring twenty-four French and Allied prisoners on Wednesday, 1 December 1943.

 

Well, we did stop them. I dunno how we did it, considering Mike (of all people) made up the plan on the spot. But we did it.

 

We loaded up our explosives in a 19th century rowboat and 2 Canadian canoes given to use by an old woman who lives on the Tours side of the river. We rowed up to the bridge, took us about an hour. It was hard to see (there was a lot of fog) but we made it. We wired up the bridge and waited.

 

Now what went wrong? Too many things.

 

Within a minute of the prison bus showing up we had disabled it. The small explosion hurt no one but the bridge and the bus. Mike and another girl managed to shoot three of the tires. All good for now. All was going as planned. The driver got out of the bus, followed by a guard. Mike picked them off with his submachine gun.

 

Two more guards came out of the bus and fired into the bushes we were hiding in. At this point I was curled up in a ball, covering my ears. Mike shot another one of the guards. The remaining guard ran back into the bus while four soldiers ushered every single prisoner out onto the road and made them lie down.

 

I couldn’t see them very well. Couldn’t tell anything about them, not their age, gender, or even how they were dressed, but you could tell that some of them were chained at the feet.

 

When everybody was done lining up in the mud like sardines, the guard shot six of the prisoners right in the head. Three of the guards kept their guns pointed at the prisoners while the fourth walked off to go find something.

 

Then we waited. We were at a stalemate.

 

Mike and some of the other guys decided they should try to attack the guards from behind. It should’ve been easy. More than 12 of us for 3 of them. It should’ve been easy.

 

They had 18 hostages lying in the mud. One of them was Lena. I was worried she was one of the six that had already been shot. I still couldn’t see them very well.

 

But then one of the guys set up a floodlight, spotlighting the prisoners. I searched the bodies for Lena, and I found her. She was right in the middle. She wasn’t one of the six at the end who had been shot. Thank God.

 

We waited, I think, for about an hour.

 

The guards were hard to aim at. They were constantly moving, and had formed a sort of triangle, so they were always facing in different directions. We just couldn’t get to them that way. One of the prisoners started to cry, and when a man next to her tried to comfort her, it earned him a bullet in his hand.

 

That was when we realized couldn’t win this one. They were just to ruthless.

 

The fourth guard came back and began to chat with the others. We waited.

 

Then Lena lifted her said and said something to the guards that made them  _ laugh.  _ And then, reinforcements arrived. Two military trucks with six armed soldiers each. Even then we weren’t badly outnumbered. Around 12 of us to 16 of them.

 

When they were trying to load the trucks with the prisoners, they got resistance. Not just from us, though. Some of the prisoners ran for it, dived into a ditch where Mike and some other guys were. They were guided them to the boats under the bridge. The soldiers shot at them while Mike’s guys shot at the equipment.

 

At this point, there was so much gunfire there was no way 2 shots from my little revolver would get noticed. I took two shots at the chains that were binding two men together. They ran too.

 

When another man tried to run after that, he got absolutely mowed down by the soldiers.

 

And then the soldier in charge decided to bring a few of the prisoners to their feet. Two of the unchained men, and Lena. Three prisoners in a line. The guard in charge gave a command and another guard shot one of the men in the crotch. They shot him a few more times in the legs and made him walk to the truck on his own. The man after him received the same treatment, but he got lucky and fainted.

 

Lena. She stood there stoic as always, staring right ahead into the night and fog. She was next. She knew it, I knew it. We all knew it. I finally snapped. I let out a loud sob and burst into tears.

 

Her face lit up light a Christmas tree after that. Joy and relief were written clearly across her face, and just for a second I was able to pretend everything was okay. She was all lovely again, just like the old days.  _ Beautiful _ . She had heard me and recognized my bawling.

 

Lena was next. She suddenly burst out laughing and let out a desperate cry.

 

“KISS ME HARDY, Kiss me,  _ QUICK! _ ” She turned her face away from me to make it easier. I leveled my .32 at her and let off a shot.

 

_ I missed. _

 

The bullet hit the guard that was aiming his gun at her, instead. Hit him right in the neck. Out like a candle. Here, then gone. Lena took her chance and ran for the ditch.

 

She made it.

 

She fucking made it.

 

Lena’s alive. And she made it.

 

Fuck. I almost killed my best friend.

 

//

 

I’m still shaken up about what happened yesterday. I just can’t believe what I did. But Lena’s alive. And she’s here. With me. I never thought I’d see her again, but she’s here. I just can’t believe it.

 

Now that we’ve got Verity- the final piece of our puzzle- we can finally do what we came here to do. Just one more thing I’ve got to do before that, though.  _ J'ai besoin de la vérité _ . I need the truth.

 

I need verity.

//

 

I have received a package of German-made chemises. Or at least that’s what I thought they were. Under them, however, was a stack of old papers. I realized upon further that some of it was written on hotel stationary, sheet music, recipe book pages, even prescription pads.

 

It’s not Engel’s handwriting, but Lena’s.

 

As I read it, I can tell when Lena had been crying. The writing got smeared and the paper wrinkled with her dried tears. I too am crying over these pages as I read them. Those bastards did show her the pictures of the crash. She gave them code too. ELEVEN SETS of wireless code. All of it FAKE. She knew so much, and all she’s given them is fake code. Bloody brilliant.

 

She never told them my code name, didn’t even tell them about Laurel Thon. SHE DIDN’T GIVE THEM ANYTHING

 

This confession of hers is riddled with false information. She hasn’t given them the correct name of any airfield in all of Britain, except maybe Maidsend (it’s where she was stationed, after all). I did my training at Barton, not Oakway.

 

Now, what’s strange about this is that while the information is false, the story is rather close to the truth. She’s recounted our friendship (if you can call it that at this point) so truthfully. It’s  _ us. _

 

There is a blank page separating the pile. The papers under it are covered with information that’s been underlined by Engel. What I have in my hands now is the instructions and code on how to bring down the Ormaie Gestapo headquarters once and for all.

 

God, there’s  _ so much _ code here. Lines upon lines of it.

 

  * We are guarded like royalty. There are dogs.
  * The cellars are not secure
  * The air raids here last two hours.
  * My window has been boarded shut
  * The ground floor contains all the offices.
  * There is a gate leading to the cellars, from the outside.



That’s only some of it. This is all we need to set that place up in flames.

 

//

 

We did it. Lena, the Resistance, and I did it. The Castle of Butchers is no more. We were in and out in half an hour. Easy as pie. I won’t bore you with the details (I say you, but in all honesty, no one is ever going to read this), but we did it. Every single person held prisoner there is now free, and every officer we found there is now being interrogated.

 

//

 

I’ve spent some time with Lena over the past few days, and to say I missed her is the understatement of the century. I missed her smile, how she scrunches up her nose when she laughs. I missed that little mole on her neck. I missed the way her eyes light up when she gets to speak German (she has always loved the language). I missed her. I missed  _ us.  _ I wonder if she knows that. I wonder if she knows how much I love her. I reckon she does, after those final moments in that damned Lysander that wouldn’t stop climbing.

 

She still has bruises from her time spent in that shithole. She showed them to me. They’re all over her wrists, her neck, her back. Everywhere. She also has tiny burns on her neck. She says they’re from cigarettes. I don’t want to know what they did.

 

Anyways, we’re back in England now. I’m not being court-martialed. I still get to fly, same as before. Lena’s going to go back to being a wireless operator (after what she went through in Ormaie, she says she can’t go back to being an interrogator again. Not after what she saw.)

 

We’re both getting stationed at Maidsend, so that’s a plus. We even get to share a room.

 

//

 

Today was wonderful. I practiced flying for the first time in what, three months? It felt so good to be up in the air again, away from everything. Flew with Lena in the back. Had her hand on my thigh the entire flight, like Mike (Ugh, that ass). It was different, somehow. Something’s changed between us. That kiss really put everything out there.

 

I’d like to do it again. In fact, I did. Did it properly, too. Last night, when we were in bed. “Kiss me hardy,” I had said. And she did. Just like on that night in the plane. I wonder what the other girls on the base would say. For all they know, Lena and I are just gal pals (as the Americans would say.)

 

Lena hasn’t slept in her own bed since we got here. She doesn’t want to sleep alone, so she always climbs in with me. I’m glad. I don’t think she’ll ever recover from Ormaie, but I’ll be there for her. Always. Even after this war, when it’s all over and Hitler is either dead or in some far off prison. I’ll be there for her. Even when we’re stuck in the climb with nowhere to go. Always.

 

I remember this dream I had once, in Ormaie. It was a clear blue sky, the sun hung high above our heads. We were flying above a great big field in a Lysander. Just me and Lena. “Kiss me hardy,” she says, and I do. I kiss her and she kisses me back, and everything is good in the world. It was the most peaceful and at-home I’ve ever felt. One day, if, no.  _ When.  _ When we make it through this hellish war, I want to live out that dream, with Lena.

 

One day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! come yell at me on tumblr @photographerwithapen  
> Also, how would yall feel about an epilogue? And for those of you wondering, Laurel Thon is an anagram of Lena Luthor.


	3. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo, so this morning I realized I promised you guys an epilogue, but never actually did. So uh... here it is! I know it's really short but honestly it was either this or nothing so.. take it or leave it, I guess.
> 
> It should be noted that I have absolutely no idea how airfields work, so please ignore how inaccurate this is :)  
> (Yes, I know Nayland Airfield wasn't opened until 1962 but let's pretend)

“Kara darling, could you help me out with this?” Lena calls out from the spot of shade under the big oak tree in their backyard, away from the hot summer heat of July 1947. It’s been two years since the war, and Lena and Kara are the happiest they have ever been. They have their own house now in a small town known as Dedham, located in Essex.

 

Kara gives no answer to Lena’s question, all she does is walk over to the motorcycle Lena is working on. Upon inspection, she realizes Lena needed help flipping the bike over so it was on its wheels again (Lena insists on doing it that way, as it’s easier to work with. It’s less bothersome now that she has Kara with her).

 

“Is that all?” Kara asks, and receives a happy nod from Lena. “Kiss as a thank you?” She said, only joking. But Lena did it anyways. Soft, sweet, and short, as always.

 

They stand close together underneath the tree, looking up at the clear blue summer sky, admiring it in comfortable silence for a good while. Kara finally looks down to find emerald green eyes already looking at her.

 

“Hey there, Queenie.” She says with a smile, and Lena does the same. “It’s a great day out. Perfect for a flight over the town. What do you say?”

 

All Lena has to do is nod her head, and then they’re on the way to the Nayland Airfield, just 10 kilometers from their home in Dedham, and in no less than ten minutes, the couple arrive at their destination.

 

They get off the newly repaired motorcycle and head for the hangar, where the Tiger Moth they would be flying was located. It was painted mostly black, with yellow on the bottom.

 

Kara gets into the pilot seat, but not before helping Lena in. Kara makes it out of the hangar, and into the clear blue, afternoon sky. The sun hangs high above them, and it feels like they’re the only two people in the world. Just Lena and Kara against the world, and it a sense- it is. It always has been, since the war. But in this moment, in this little biplane, it doesn’t feel like that anymore. It’s the most at-home either of them have ever felt, and they revel in that as long as they can.

 

As she flies above one of many empty fields in the region, Kara is reminded of the dream she had in Ormaie, three years ago. She realizes that this moment is just as she had imagined in the dream, except she can’t kiss Lena. They are in a biplane, after all.

 

But that doesn’t matter. Nothing does. Not right now, anyways. And as Kara looks ahead of her, she is at peace. Everything is good and the world, just like in the dream she has so badly wanted to live out with Lena.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes the series! Hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it :)  
> Come follow me on tumblr: @sstalemate for an absolute dump composed of mostly supercorp, and @photographerwithapen for my more organized, nicer writing/art/photography blog (i post more writing there than i do here)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Next chapter will be from a different perspective :)


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